


Rosetta

by westminster



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, lots of history!, lots of shakespeare!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30022122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: The British Museum, London, 1838. John Bridgens recognises a face in the crowd.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Rosetta

**Author's Note:**

> finding out that the terror was going to be broadcast on bbc two spurred me back into this fandom, and gave me all the motivation i needed to a.) finally start the book and b.) write a little something for my favourite pairing!

If one enters the British Museum, ascends the grand staircase before strolling through the Sloane Collection, one ends up in a long, thin room. There is a seat beside the entrace: a proper Chesterfield, bestowed upon the museum by Lord Stanhope himself, an oddity amongst the conventional benches. It's still not the comfiest: the tough red leather doesn't bend or mould to accommodate one's shape. Its purpose is to leave suits uncreased and reinforce posture. It is cold and hard and offers little pleasure, but it is a damn lot comfier than the mattress John Bridgens currently spends his days resting on, awaiting another voyage.

He finds the Chesterfield so charming that he arrives at Montagu House as the sun rises, securing his favoured place to read. He can only afford admission once a fortnight on his pay, even with his rum rationed. It is worth it, worth watching sunlight break through thick London fog to highlight the Grecian and Roman vases lining the centre of the room. John cherishes these early mornings, making good progress with his reading before the crowds pick up. He longs to spend the rest of his life like this, consuming wonderful stories, supplemented by soft _ooh_ and _aahs_ in his peripheral, as all manner of men pass him by. But he knows this contentment is temporary: soon he will be posted to another ship, with no such beauties to keep him company. He will still have a book in his hand, though, and his Chesterfield will be there anticipating his return. He refuses to get too melancholic.

Today he brings _Othello_. John prefers the Bard's comedies, but the room's grandeur requires something of the same magnitude, so _Othello_ it is. John spends a little time people-watching, before becoming engrossed in Act Four, Scene Three - the Willow Scene - all dark and foreboding and full of woe. In the midst of this, he looks up, taking a gulp of stuffy air to bring him back to the here and now. That's when he notices him. It'd be difficult not to: visitors tend to be affluent and eager to don their Sunday best, all pretty dresses, top hats and tailcoats. Not the man who studies the Portland Vase. He is an anomaly: no frock or morning coat, just a ragged sack jacket that had certainly seen better days. The frayed jumper, colour faded to a dull red, and neutral trousers would've camoflauged him in any crowd on the London streets, but not here. John thinks a miracle has occurred. He praises as many gods as he can remember, because here, in the heart of all these strangers he stands covered in sunbeams, a little older but still the same Henry, _Harry_ Peglar. John realises he has completely frozen.

He could never understand Othello's readiness to believe Iago's manipulations. He drinks the lies in like life-blood: his acceptance is immediate and chilling. John had always thought Othello rather foolish, irked by the character's stupidity. But now he understands. He has seen beautiful men before, of course, but the man in front of him has always been different. Memories of _Beagle_ _—_ Henry's fingers gliding over parchment, Henry's lips forming complex vowels _—_ had remained at the forefront of John's mind. They had spent years by each other's side, glued together as they worked on Henry's alphabet with only little oil lanterns to illuminate their writings. John had loved him dearly and was once certain Henry loved him back. But John is a man of conviction, would never engage in such acts at sea, not even for such a lovely creature as Henry, so John had moved on. Moved on, but not forgotten. And now Henry, his Henry is here. John struggles to avert his gaze, finding Henry's demeanour impossibly endearing: worried that he does not belong here, amongst the gentlemen and ladies, but still beaming at each item on display. He is brimming with youth and vitality and an endless stream of _purity_ that John is enraptured by. _Yes,_ John thinks _, I understand. I would believe anything that comes out of that mouth. I would turn my back on my dearest friends with one word from his lips. I would commit the most heinous crimes if he were to drop the smallest seed in my ear._ John wonders if Henry is thinking of them, the Roman vase conjuring up memories of evenings spent studying Virgil's _Aeneid_. Tales of Rome were always Henry's favourite, and John is thankful, so thankful he was able to gift him those stories.

John rises, the seat that he cared so greatly about securing is trivial now. A siren has sung out to him, how can he not answer the call? He stumbles through the masses like he has just been awoken, pushing through the crowds with a shout of _Harry_ on his lips. Henry spots him, immediately grinning wider.

"John! Can it be?" he says, matching John's disbelief. John pats Henry on the arm, just to prove he's really there, and Henry places his hand over John's, flesh against flesh. His thick fingers brush over John's, the rough touch of the other man feeling like holiness.

"Yes, Harry. So long has passed, but what a marvellous place to find you," John gestures to the exhibits around him.

"All thanks to you," Henry says, voice small and wondrous, still not believing John is in front of him, "those lessons gave me the confidence to explore the things that interest me. Without you, I would've been much too afraid to come here, amongst the upper classes."

"You belong here more than anybody. Don't ever think differently. I saw you and you were actually looking at these pieces, giving them the proper care and consideration they deserve. Everyone else might wear posher clothes, but they only give such beautiful objects of antiquity half-hearted glances. They have nothing on you, Harry, _nothing_."

And what can Henry say to that? For a moment, he can only stand slack-jawed, rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from John's face, warm and open and familiar. Eventually, he regains his voice, only just.

"I've missed you dearly."

John seeks out Henry's hand and squeezes it gently, as discreet as can be in a crowded environment. Henry turns slightly, gesturing to the vase in front of them.

"Could- could you tell me what the description says? I can read print quite strongly now, but another man's penmanship never fails to trip me up. Why do the letters have to be so close together and written so ornately?"

John laughs pleasantly, years have passed since _Beagle_ , but John is just as eager to resume his role as teacher.

"You'll get there. This language is a tough one, and you've come so far already. It will become easier with time," John leans closer to see clearly through the glass, " _The Portland Vase, from the collection of William Cavendish-Bentinck, 6th Duke of Portland._ It's Roman, with a scene on either side of the vase. But no one knows what the scenes represent exactly, we can only guess. That's why it's so fascinating _—_ the mystery."

Henry moves closer to examine the vase. His breath hits John's neck. John finds himself reluctant to move, the warmth from Henry sweeter than any sunlight he has basked under.

"Well, if it's Roman, and there's a snake on the woman's lap... it could very well be Antony and Cleopatra. Is that right?"

Henry speaks slowly, afraid he might make a fool of himself at any moment. Henry's lack of confidence in his own opinions pains John. Henry, the boy with the most wonderful mind he's ever encountered. Perhaps he'll never be able to convey to Henry how intelligent, how gifted he is.

All he can do is pat Henry on the back and offer his praise, "Yes, Harry. Absolutely right, and a very canny observation too. Other scholars say it may be Peleus and Thetis, or Dionysus and Ariadne."

He turns to face Henry.

"Antony and Cleopatra was your favourite Shakespeare play."

Henry likes that John announces it. A statement. Leaving no doubt in his voice, no room for questioning. John must've carried that with him, after all this time.

"You remembered," and then, after a beat, "It still is."

John nods sheepishly, a soft hint of red on his cheeks. Henry thinks it must be the heat of the room.

 _"Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me,"_ Henry whispers. This time his speech is strong, unwavering.

"You make me proud. As a young man, I often doubted myself, questioning the point of accumulating all of this knowledge. After all, I would never be a scholar, only a sailor. But seeing you, how you've grown... I think I could die happy right now, like I've truly achieved something."

Henry is looking directly at him. John is looking at the vase.

"But you don't want to hear the ramblings of a silly old man."

"Oh, I do. But let's not talk of death, I can't abide it. You're still very young to me, John, and you have a great deal of living still to do. Won't you come look at more exhibits with me? Teach me more? It would please me to see some of the things we discussed on _Beagle_. We were so far away from home then. I never thought we'd be back here, together."

John agrees, he does not want to take this gift for granted. He has never been overtly spiritual, but reuniting with Henry here, of all places, feels like divinity. Like a sign. He gladly leads Henry through the place he knows so well, pausing at his favourite pieces for discussion. John has been alone for a very long time, and although he appreciates solitude, talking with Henry who is so sincere and receptive, is a delightful change.

Together, they see the Lindisfarne Gospels _—_ over which they discuss the merits of Biblical parables. Henry says they're not as interesting as epics surrounding ancient gods, John argues that their value is in their message, not how many fights and scandals they contain. Then, John takes him to see the foot of Apollo, a huge chunk of marble broken off from the rest of the body. _From Sir William Hamilton's collection,_ John tells Henry, noticing how Henry's eyes linger on the description. Henry's gaze shifts to the ceiling, imagining how it would feel to be in the presence of the full statue. John drinks in Henry's awe, certain he would not trade the memory of Henry's face for anything in the world. John takes Henry to see his most beloved piece, the Rosetta Stone. It is currently the most popular attraction in the museum, having been presented by King George III a few decades ago. It takes pride of place in the centre of the gallery, resting on a plinth at chest-height. The pair make their way through the small crowd until they are right at the front.

The face of the stone is covered by a thick sheet of glass, so Henry leans close, nose to the surface, and traces the foreign shapes with the tip of his finger.

"These are hieroglyphics. I remember seeing them in a book. But what are the others?" Henry asks.

"The middle text is another form of the Egyptian language, Demotic. You read it from right to left. It was used for legal matters, whereas hieroglyphics were reserved for decoration. The last text is Ancient Greek."

"Do you really think we'll be able to understand these little pictures? Do you think it'll happen in our lifetime? The prospect of learning a language no one alive knows seems like a wondrous thing. But how sad to have no one to speak it with."

John rests his hand on Henry's shoulder; Henry is still tracing the little images in a trance-like state.

"Ah, but then you can teach people to speak it with you. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to teach you hieroglyphics. Maybe one day you'll teach me, when I'm old and crippled and have nothing to do all day but await your letters," John presses his hand flat against the glass, "I remember reading an article when I was first put on extended shore leave, it said a Mr Lepsius was making great headway in the deciphering of its phonetics."

Henry stops dragging his fingertips across the indentations. He places his hand over John's, his touch light and cautious. His gaze does not leave the stone.

"It seems funny _—_ the idea that I might be able to teach you something one day."

"You've already taught me so much, Harry. More than you could know."

Henry looks up and smiles at John, but catches the eye of another visitor over his shoulder. He suddenly becomes very aware of how public this space is, how close they are. He takes a step back. The tension between the two is making his head spin. Henry walks away, out into the gardens, hoping John will follow.

He does, of course. He would never leave Henry, not now. They find a secluded section, all towering hedges and stone walls. Henry sits down on the grass, head tipped up to revel in the warmth, light dancing on his pale skin. John remains standing, observing, until Henry gestures for John to join him. The crack of bones and laboured breaths betray John's age: it takes a moment for him to rest comfortably on the grass. Henry reaches out a hand at one point, but John dismisses it. Henry was right, he's not that old yet. Still has a few more years in him. Perhaps one final voyage. Then it'll be over, but not now.

They rest in comfortable silence, the chatter of other people distant and far-out. It is like they never left each other, the years apart trivial and insignificant in the mid-morning light. Henry rolls onto his stomach, head resting in his hand. He looks up at John, blinking in quick succession to see him through the harsh rays of sunshine.

"You do have so much more to teach me, John. Today has made that clear. And I want to learn, I want to learn _from you._ I have found it difficult to read without a companion to sound out or define complex words. And I am yet to meet someone who is..." Henry pauses, hesitant in his selection of words, "as _compatible_ as we are. John, I am asking if you would like to continue our previous tutelage. If, of course, you are so inclined."

"Yes," John says, not spending a moment's thought on it. A chance to experience more days like this, more days together? There can only ever be one answer.

" _Yes_ ," John repeats, more firmly this time.

*

Initially, the logistics of renewed lessons prove to be quite a barrier to overcome. Henry rents an abysmal room in Whitechapel: he can afford better, he tells John, but he prefers to put his pay towards expanding his small library. It is worth the smell, the infestations, the noise from the brothel next door. Whereas John lives a great deal further away, in a Greenwich lodging house, in marginally better conditions than Henry. John is ready to tell Henry he'll travel, will make the great pilgrimage to Henry every day if that's what it takes, when Henry shyly suggests that he moves. _With all your wonderful books, I shan't need to buy any more. I could afford a nicer room nearer to you,_ he says. John knows he should protest, but cannot bring himself to do so. He acquiesces.

Things progress swiftly, and within a week of their reunion, John visits Henry in his new room, a two-minute walk from John's own. From then on, not a day goes by where the two don't see each other. Henry spends little time in his room, bringing John fresh bread at dawn and whiling away the day in his company. Sometimes they head into town, rifling through bookshops even when their pockets are empty.

Weeks pass by in such fashion, the two men living in complete compatibility. In the day time, John chooses passages for Henry to read aloud. John offers minimal corrections, Henry improving considerably each day. He still reads slowly, pausing before each word to sound it out phonetically, but he still makes good speed, and John is very proud of his student. In the evenings, Henry asks John to read to him. John reads his favourite parts of _Arabian Nights, The Aeneid_ and the literary magazine he purchases, _The Athenæum._

One night, giddy and in high spirits, they go to see _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ They stand at the back of the stalls and can hardly see a thing. It matters little to John, though, who sneaks glances at Henry throughout, watching how he laughs and grins near-constantly. Afterwards, over a bottle of gin that John had saved for a special occasion, Henry tells him that this is the best night of his life.

"We'll see more," John says in earnest, "You'll have many more nights like this, I promise."

Henry is still full of excitement, unable to remain still. He bounces around the room, gin sloshing in the glass.

"The way the actors flowed across the stage was beautiful... no... _ethereal_ ," Henry raises his arms and spins in a languid circle, imitating the movements of the faeries from the play.

John laughs and drums a rhythm on his knee, "Yes, Harry, you would make an excellent Puck!"

John's words, and a little gin, are all the encouragement Henry needs. He picks a violet from the bunch that sit half-dead by the window and slots it behind his ear. Then Henry sticks his hand into the fireplace, not yet lit, and drags a piece of coal across each cheek, two black lines smeared into his skin. John watches in awe. Henry drops the coal and pulls John up despite a feeble protest. Henry leads them in an ungainly dance across the floor, his hands smearing coal onto John's until he can't tell where he ends and John begins.

John pauses after a few laps to catch his breath. Henry is still bubbling with energy, showing no signs of slowing down.

"The life of a performer must be so wonderful. I wish I could act like that. Oh John, let's perform together, just us. Then I could try my hand at acting without being dreadfully embarrassed. Please, John, we have two copies of the play. I shall be Puck, and you can be Oberon."

John agrees, as he always does with Henry's plans. He can't help it, especially when Henry gets that juvenile sparkle in his eye. Part of him is eager to recite _Midsummer_ with Henry. He has spent too many evenings performing Hamlet's soliloquies to his mirror: a partner is a welcome change.

John flicks through the play, indicating to Henry the line he will start from.

The alcohol has removed much of his restraint and he decides to commit everything to this performance. He moves close to Henry, hand hovering over Henry's cheek, never quite touching. He ghosts his fingertips over the flower tucked behind Henry's ear. Henry shivers before moving to lean into John's touch, but John pulls his hand away. Henry bites his bottom lip.

 _"Hast thou the flower there?"_ John begins, _"Welcome, wanderer."_

Henry's gazes slips to the book, then back at John.

_"Ay, there it is."_

_"I pray thee, give it."_

Henry takes the flower from behind his ear. He is about to place it in John's palms, as directed, when another idea holds him. He thinks about how lovely the violet would rest between the long strands of John's hair, pastel beauty amongst the silver. Overwhelmed by this urge, he holds John's chin tight between his fingers to steady him as he slots the stem into John's locks.

Henry keeps John there for a moment, reluctant to relinquish his hold on the other man. They stand silently, the air around them heavy and humid. Henry cannot think what to do next, wonders if he's forgotten a line and John is waiting for him.

But then, at last, John speaks, voice smooth and bold under lamplight.

_"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,  
_ _Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,  
_ _Quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine,  
_ _With sweet musk roses and with eglantine..."_

Henry loses himself in the verse, moving his hand from John's chin to cup his cheek. He keeps glancing at John's lips, lush and full as they form such beautiful words. He longs to cover them with his own, Henry realises. But this revelation prompts no shock or surprise. This desire has lived dormant in him for a very long time, appearing both new and familiar. How easy would it be, he thinks, to press his lips to John's right now, to swallow Shakespeare's words straight from John's mouth. It would be so simple, so natural.

"Harry, it's your line."

Henry's eyes snap up to meet John's. A blush spreads across his cheeks. He hopes John hasn't been waiting long for him. Henry's fingers fumble back to the book. It takes a moment for him to find his next line.

_"Fear not, my lord. Your servant shall do so."_

John smiles wistfully, like he hasn't noticed anything amiss. He pats Henry on the shoulder.

"Capital performance, dear boy. Now let's get that coal off your face. I think that's enough mischief for one night."

*

The next evening, Henry asks to recite another scene with John, insisting that it does wonders for his literary comprehension. John agrees, and together they read out Henry's favourite part of Coriolanus. John plays the titular character, Henry plays Aufidius. He chooses the brief moment where Aufidius embraces Coriolanus as a friend and ally. Aufidius will turn on him very soon, but for this moment, the hate vanishes and they drink together as brothers. Henry and John have a remarkably good time, also managing to finish off last night's gin.

The day after that, John declares it is his turn to pick a scene. Unspoken is the promise that this will now be a ritual between the two, part of the routine of Henry's lessons. John chooses a role close to his heart, Hamlet. And Henry is Horatio, _his_ Horatio. Who listens to him, cares for him, hold him in his arms when he dies. It is an evening of great self-indulgence for John.

When it comes to Henry's turn, he has grown confident. Bold enough to suggest something that would've turned him scarlet not so long ago. It is the result of spending his nights in a fervour: closing his eyes and seeing John, nothing but John, John's kind eyes, John's lips, the brief glimpses of John's chest he has caught over the years. He touches his body and wishes his hands were John's, convinced he will never find peace until he makes this desire clear.

Henry has decided to bare his soul tonight. He has spent the afternoon rewriting a passage from the Bible, to practice his script. His work is sloppier than usual, perhaps from the nerves, but John is still kind, does not chastise, as he carefully and methodically corrects the passage. Henry sits beside John and picks at the dirt underneath his fingernails, anything to not look in John's eyes. John assumes it's about the poor standard of his writing.

"Don't worry, Harry," he says, wrapping an arm around the other man, rubbing some warmth into his shoulder, "Let's cheer you up with another little performance, eh? I bet you've got a good scene lined up."

"I- I would like to read Romeo and Juliet, Act One, Scene Five. I would like to be Romeo."

John's face lights up as he remembers which scene Henry has picked.

"Ah, and I'll be Tybalt. Your sworn enemy," he laughs.

Henry pauses and gulps. _It is now or never. Take the leap into icy waters._ He places a hand on John's wrist, anchoring him, stopping him from shaking.

"Not Tybalt. _Juliet_. Of course, only if you want to, that is, I wouldn't, that's not to presume _—"_

 _Are you sure,_ John goes to say but stops himself. For purely selfish reasons. He is a lonely old man who allows himself, just this once, to indulge further in his perversions. This will take them into dangerous territory, he is certain. But sometimes sin can feel good, _holy_ , like honey on the tongue.

"Yes," John whispers, gentle but firm. He rises, bringing Henry's copy of the play to him. John makes sure their fingers touch as he passes the book to Henry, gets a thrill from the way Henry's grip falters.

They stand facing each other, only a few feet apart, the usual position before they begin. Henry has spent many nights reading and re-reading this passage, imagining all the various ways this scene could play out. He knows how to start, what to do, what to say. He has designed this, and now he must be bold enough to see it through.

Henry lowers himself to his knees, gaze never leaving John's. It is easier to kneel to John than any deity Henry has heard of. He doesn't feel submissive, or inferior. They have been and always shall be equals. Henry takes John's hand in his, staying true to the stage directions. John's thumb strokes circles into Henry's palm, smiling down at him reassuringly.

Henry knows these lines. He does not have to look at the book:

_"If I profane with my unworthiest hand  
_ _This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:  
_ _My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand  
_ _To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."_

He presses his forehead against their intertwined hands as John speaks. John's voice falters, unable to find the rhythm in Shakespeare's verse. Henry has never seen him like this. He prays it's a good sign. He leans back so he can look into John's eyes once more, and is rewarded by the warmth he finds there.

 _"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"_ John recites, voice barely above a whisper.

_"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."_

_"O, then dear saint, let lips do what hands do,  
_ _They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."_

Henry stands up, brings John's knuckles to his own cheek. There is a ritualistic element to this performance: it reminds Henry of _Beagle's_ trip to the Galapagos, the dances they would see birds do before mating. They both know how this dance ends, what lies a few lines ahead. Both men could stop this at any time, their continuation sealing their fate. John carries on, steadier this time:

_"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake."_

_"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take."_

Suddenly Henry finds himself short of breath. This is the moment. The grand gesture. John waits patiently, does not speak or move. Henry realises that John never will, that these past few weeks have been a long wait for Henry to make the first move, for Henry to decide when he is ready. He has never been more sure of anything in his life.

Henry brings his lips to John's, soft and hesitant. He finds that it is not all so different to kissing a woman: John's mouth is just delicate, his touch just as gentle. It is perfect. So perfect that Henry drops the book in shock. Neither of the men are startled by the _thud_ of the thick book on the floorboards, they are much too preoccupied. If right now, the Earth opened up and consumed them, they would not notice as long as they remained in each other's arms.

John deepens the kiss, extracting small gasps and mewls from Henry's mouth. Henry has never felt like this when kissing a woman, not even Rose. He feels so very alive, so very aware of every inch of his body and how it is touching John's. All he wants is to press impossible closer to John, he presses and presses until John's back is against the wall.

Henry breaks the kiss to stare at John, gaze full of wonder, " _Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged."_

John laughs gently, presses his forehead against Henry's, _"Give me my sin again."_

Henry does not need to be asked twice, mouth finding John's once more.

"Harry," John says after a moment, "Would you like to come to bed with me?"

Henry nods, leading John to the small mattress shoved into the corner. He lets John get comfortable first, resting supine, propped up by a pillow. Henry straddles him, reaches down to begin unbuttoning his shirt. Henry kisses all the skin he finds there, nose nestled in the sparse expanse of silver hair.

"Can't believe you desire me like this, John," he manages to say in between the kisses, "I can't sleep, can't rest. All I do is think of you."

Henry begins to rut against John's body, unable to restrain himself as John's hands move up his shirt, to caress the base of his spine.

" _Christ,_ Harry. Harry _—_ pretty boy, _my_ pretty boy."

John slips a hand under Henry's breeches, and Henry thinks he might cry.

"Yes, yes, yours, no one else's. Just yours, always yours," Henry spits out in a jumble. His mind is hazy, filled with lust, desperate to reach his climax.

John pauses to unlace his own breeches, and Henry whines at the lack of contact. John chuckles. " _Patience,"_ he whispers, silencing Henry with a playful kiss to his nose. John takes his time, but the reward is sweet. He takes both pricks in one hand, starting slow then picking up the pace fairly quickly. Henry is overwhelmed, choking out encouragement, broken _yeses_ and _pleases_ and _more_ and _so good, don't stop._

Henry doesn't last very long after that, a cry escaping his lips as he spills over John's stomach. John strokes him through it until Henry flops down next to him, tucking his head into the crook of John's neck. He looks down at John, still hard between their bodies, and takes John's member in his own hand. Another man's prick under his fingers is a new experience, though certainly not an unpleasant one. He tugs it like he would his own, and John pushes up into his touch.

"So close, Harry. Keep going. Just like that now, doing so good. Such a good job, dear."

Henry ghosts his fingertips over John's stones, and that is what pushes John over the edge, spending onto Henry's hands. Henry wipes the mess on John's shirt; John doesn't have the heart to complain. When John has finally regained some control over his own thoughts, he looks down to find Henry fast asleep. He knows they should clean up, should find a blanket to shroud themselves in, but John wouldn't disturb Henry right now for the world. In sleep, he looks as youthful as a newborn babe, and John knows that tonight, he is the luckiest man in London.

With Henry in his arms, he finally feels optimistic. Looking forward and seeing days of reading with Henry, eating with Henry, sleeping with Henry _—_ perhaps a happy life and domestic comfort were not out of reach for John Bridgens. Maybe this pair of star-crossed lovers were afforded a happy ending. It did not hurt to dream a little.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading — i hope you enjoyed it!


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